In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Conor sprang back fast. Balor, blood streaming down his arm, gathered himself, and drove in again hard. Conor planted his feet and prepared to meet his assailant blow for blow and thrust for thrust. The faéry sword seemed to take life in his grasp, quivering in its eagerness to strike.

  Conor let the charmed blade have its way.

  Again and again, Conor swung and Eirian sang, dealing out a dizzying series of savage strokes. Pressed hard, the Scálda war king deflected each and every one with the battle-honed skill of a seasoned warrior. But Conor’s fevered onslaught began to exact a toll: Balor’s iron sword was slowly bending, the edge growing scored, notched. Soft Scálda iron was no match for the otherworldly strength of the faéry blade.

  Enraged, seething, his eyes ablaze with hatred, Balor was forced to give ground. Sweat streamed down his face and neck; his hair was wet and plastered to his head; blood coursed down his arm. Wiping his hand on his leather tunic, he snatched up his shield from beside his ox-bone throne, fitted it to his arm, and began beating on the shield rim while shouting in his loathsome tongue. Roaring, raging, spittle flying from his fleshy lips, the Scálda king jeered and taunted, defying Conor to come for him.

  Conor, too, stepped back, and began pulling on the straps fastening his Scálda armour. Suddenly, Rhiannon was there; her deft fingers worked the laces, and the hard leather carapace fell away. Piece by piece, Conor threw off the repulsive enemy battle gear, shedding the thick chest plate, the leggings, and the pointed, horsetail helmet. Half naked, he stood before his great adversary as a true blue-painted Dé Danann warrior.

  ‘You are free, Conor,’ said Rhiannon, stepping away. ‘Finish it!’

  Planting his feet wide apart, Conor cried a challenge: ‘Come to me, Evil Eye! Meet the doom you have earned ten thousand times!’

  Balor put back his huge, shaggy head and loosed a deafening roar. He gathered himself and charged, throwing his serpent shield before him. Conor braced himself for the impact, then made a subtle half turn as Balor closed on him. Balor’s shield met Pared at an angle and slid off, leaving him momentarily unprotected. Conor saw the opening and struck out. The charmed blade bit effortlessly into a crease in the Scálda king’s iron-studded leather even as Conor spun away. Balor cried out—more in anger than pain. Off-footed and unbalanced, the Scálda king rocked back on his heels. He swung his sword in wild desperation, but Conor was already out of reach.

  Growling, snarling yellow teeth clamped in a grimace of monstrous fury, the Fomórai lord lumbered toward him, cursing in his abhorrent tongue as he came. The instant Conor was certain Balor had committed to the charge, he dropped his sword, leapt to his right, spun, and grabbed the shaft of Pelydr. The spear, still embedded in the Scálda chieftain’s armour, stood at a slight upward angle, and Conor gave it a hefty yank and pulled the trapped blade free. Spinning around, he slammed the butt of the spear into Balor’s serpent shield with all his strength; the oak splintered and cracked from top to bottom. Balor staggered and almost went down.

  Before Balor could recover, Conor thumped him again in the same place, and then again. Each knock rang with a clear, resounding note as splinters and chunks of oak spun away. After the fourth hammering, Conor could see daylight through the crack.

  Balor, foaming with rage and frustration, lashed out. With wild, scything sweeps of his ragged iron blade, he bulled forward, bellowing as he came. Conor was forced back a step, and then another. With a mighty cry, Balor swung his cracked shield. The edge hooked Conor’s shield, pulling it aside just enough to allow the Scálda king to slash at Conor’s throat.

  Conor reeled backward and the snaggled blade raked his upper chest. Stinging pain blazed through him, bringing tears to his eyes. The acrid scent of blood filled his nostrils and he tasted the sharp, coppery taste of blood on his tongue. Beads of bright crimson welled from the cut and oozed down Conor’s naked torso, blending with the blue woad tattoo.

  Crouching low, Conor gathered himself and leapt, launching himself full stretch at his assailant, throwing Pared before him. The collision caused chunks of broken oak to fall from the serpent shield. The Scálda king staggered back on his heels, but did not go down.

  From somewhere in the distance came the unmistakable blare of a battle carnyx, its flat, metallic call floating out across the plain. There were sounds of the clash, too, from the foot of the mound, where the faéry and fianna, their strong iron blades scarlet and streaming, toiled to secure the perimeter of the mound and, if not able to help Conor, then at least prevent any aid from reaching Balor or taking Conor from behind.

  Balor, reeling from the clash, steadied himself, gave out a groan, and attacked with a flurry of wild, desperate blows. Conor easily avoided some of these and parried others, but Balor bulled ahead, slashing with his sword, again and again and again, forcing Conor back and back.

  Labouring now, his breath coming in rasping gulps and gasps, Balor swung his wrecked shield like a bludgeon, trying to knock Conor off his feet. Seeing his enemy’s strength ebbing away, Conor gave ground. The two circled one another, each wary, watching for an advantage to exploit. They passed the ox-bone throne and Conor happened to step in the little fire ring next to the chair. His foot struck the iron smudge pot; the pot rolled beneath his foot and Conor stumbled, losing his spear as he fell. He slammed to the ground, throwing up a cloud of smoke and sparks and hot ash.

  Balor was on him in a heartbeat.

  Rolling on his back, Conor attempted to fend off the attack. Slashing this way and that, the Scálda king tried to beat down Conor’s defences with a sustained burst of brutal, hacking blows. Time and again, Conor saw Balor’s arm rise and the iron sword sweep down upon him; and each time Pared absorbed a blow that would have ruined a normal shield.

  Conor, without a weapon now, saw the snarl on the brute’s scar-twisted face, that perpetual sneer, the pitiless hatred firing the dark depths of that single baleful eye. He also saw that a sickly pallor had seeped into Balor’s swarthy face as the Scálda king plied his jagged sword.

  As Conor tightened his grip on his shield strap and tensed beneath the hammering blows, he felt someone take hold of his arm. The hilt of his sword Eirian was thrust into his hand, and Rhiannon’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘Finish it!’

  Conor gripped the faéry blade and felt an uncanny calm settle upon him. The inflamed birthmark on Conor’s cheek—a self-contained blaze until now—suddenly flared with a ferocious heat that seemed to envelop his entire being. Reaching down within himself, calling on his last reserve of strength, Conor raised Pared and, as Balor continued to batter away at him, Conor steadied himself and awaited his chance to strike.

  That chance came when the battle horn sounded again, closer now, emanating from the far northern edge of the Tara Plain. From somewhere below, Galart gave out an almighty shout. ‘Dé Danann!’ he cried. ‘The Dé Danann are coming!’

  Balor looked toward the sound and gnashed his teeth in rage as a great, formless mass appeared, streaming in from the direction of Mag Rí. The battle horn sounded again and Balor lunged, throwing his ruined serpent shield before him. Conor saw the gaping hole in the shield and, without a flicker of hesitation, shoved Eirian through the breach, driving the razor-sharp blade into the Scálda king’s exposed shoulder. The cut was vicious and deep into the muscle. Wounded, winded, Balor Berugderc threw back his head and bellowed his pain and frustration to the heavens.

  ‘Call on her, Evil Eye!’ Conor cried. ‘Call on the Hag Queen! She is waiting for you!’

  Balor answered with a bestial snarl of rage, hefted up his sword and let fly. The iron missile slammed into the charmed shield with a shock that Conor felt in his bones. But Pared held firm and the misshapen blade skidded away. Balor spun around, searching for a weapon. He spied Conor’s spear on the ground a few paces away and went for it. He took two steps, slipped on the blood-slick ground, and stumbled to his knees, releasing his broken shield as he fell.

  Conor flew to the attack.

 
Drawing back his arm, he delivered a stroke he had practiced a thousand times: a swift downward sweep of his fully extended arm. The unerring blow struck the Scálda king’s exposed neck just below the skull even as Balor grasped the errant spear and half turned to rise.

  The faéry blade sliced effortlessly through flesh and bone, carving the Scálda king’s head from his shoulders and carrying his evil, shrunken soul into the next world. The headless torso hung suspended between rising and falling … and then crumpled into a lifeless heap.

  Conor, his breath coming in great, gawping draughts, stood over the bleeding corpse of his great enemy. He felt none of the wild exultation he imagined he might feel in this moment. He felt neither remorse nor relief. If anything, he felt only the sweat on his back and the pulsing sting of the wound to his upper chest. Nothing more.

  Suddenly, Rhiannon was there beside him. He felt her first, and then heard her voice. ‘The victory is yours, my friend,’ she said. ‘It is over.’ She retrieved Pelydr and handed the spear to him, then turned and shouted to Lenos and Morfran and the others at the foot of the mound. ‘Balor is dead!’ she called. ‘Balor Evil Eye is defeated!’

  Conor, his heart still racing, stared in disbelief, refusing to accept what his own senses were telling him. Balor Berugderc, the brutal scourge of his people, was dead—at long, long last … dead.

  With his foot, Conor rolled the corpse and, taking up Evil Eye’s crooked sword, plunged it into the unmoving chest—forcing the bent blade down, working it through the armoured tunic and layers of flesh and muscle and bone into the dead king’s black heart. He plucked Balor’s head from the ground and hoisted it by the hair to eye level and gazed at the viciously ugly features, now frozen forever in a grimace of agony and hate.

  Then, taking the severed head in both hands, Conor raised it, and jammed it hard onto the hilt of Balor’s upright sword. There was resistance at first, the severed veins and flesh of the windpipe and tongue, and the bones of the jaws and skull had to be broken and pierced. Again and again, Conor pounded the raw neck against the hilt, bashing through the meat and bone and gristle until at last the thing stuck: a grisly standard, a grotesque trophy for all the world to see.

  The dreadful display produced an instant effect. Those nearest the mound witnessed their king’s head perched on his sword and cringed at the sight. An unnatural silence spread out from the top of the mound, coursing through the Scálda ranks as word of Balor’s death sped through the scattered enemy battle groups.

  The carnyx blared again. Peering through watery eyes, Conor looked out across the plain toward the sound and glimpsed a mounted warband emerging from around the far shoulder of Tara Hill: a hundred or more Dé Danann warriors galloping to the fight. As the first of these pounded onto the plain, they were followed by another warband riding in hard right behind them.

  The sudden appearance of these fresh mounted fighters plunged the now-leaderless enemy into instant disarray. The alarm already kindled by Balor’s death ignited and flared. Like a grassfire driven before the gale of its own making, fear spread through the enemy ranks, and those nearest the fighting edge began falling away. Within moments, it seemed as if the entire plain was on the move in every direction at once. The mounted Dé Danann—led by Liam with Eamon at his side—charged onto the battlefield and a tremendous cry went up. The new arrivals laid into the Scálda invaders, and chariots, riders, and footmen began quitting the plain, racing for the shelter of the wood.

  Conor took in the sight and waved his sword. He drew breath to call out to his brother and instead doubled over and vomited; his empty stomach dry-heaved and filled his mouth with sour bile, which he spat onto the ground. Wiping his mouth on his bare arm, he straightened and started down the side of the mound. He took a single step and halted, suddenly woozy. He felt as if his bones were made of stone and his limbs useless lumps of wood. It took every scrap of stamina to simply remain upright. His vision dimmed and black spots swarmed before his eyes, and the pain he had so far ignored broke fresh upon him. He looked down and saw that he was also bleeding from a deep cut to his upper thigh. How he had come by that he did not know, nor did he feel it at the time. But now, having seen it, he was aware of a throbbing fire radiating out from the gash.

  Morfran, Galart, and Calbhan appeared atop the mound and hurried to him. ‘Conor is injured,’ Rhiannon told them. Morfran moved in close, concern etched upon his face. ‘Why not sit down and let us have a look at your wounds?’ he asked. He and Galart made to ease him down onto the grass.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Conor made a swipe at the blood oozing down his chest. ‘A scratch is all.’

  ‘We cannot stay here any longer,’ called Lenos from the foot of the mound where he stood with Armadal and Sealbach. ‘The Scálda may regroup.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Galart. ‘We must go. One of Balor’s battlechiefs will surely come to claim the throne.’

  Conor turned on him. ‘Let them!’ he spat. ‘They’ll see their mighty king as he is.’

  At a gesture, Galart and Calbhan hurried to Balor’s corpse, took up the headless body, and dragged it to the chair. They arranged the lifeless lump of torso and limbs into a sitting position, and planted the iron sword at his right hand. Here, they left him: the Scálda king sprawled dead upon his ox-bone throne, his gaping head on his own battered sword, staring out at a land he would never rule, the notorious Evil Eye empty, vacant, blind.

  Aoife

  The blade that cut my Conor was poisoned. They brought him back to Tara out of his head, raving, one foot already in the grave and the other slipping down fast. Fresh from the battle, Galart, Aedd, Calbhan, and the faéry king Morfran carried him up from the plain and laid him on the board in the teeming hall among the other wounded and dying. Our fine hall was a turmoil of pain and anguish that day: men screaming, wives weeping, druids and women rushing here and there to help where they could. The noise … the stink … the throbbing fear that claws at the heart and chills the soul—these I’ll remember always.

  While Liam and the other lords with their lately come warhost drove the routed Scálda from the plain and pursued them into the forests round about, Banfaíth Orlagh, most skilled healer among the brehons, joined Rhiannon and together—head-to-head, working as one—the two hovered over Conor’s wounds, searching their formidable knowledge for a cure. After a time, I became aware that Fergal and Donal, sweating and bloody from the field, stood with me at the foot of the board, helpless, their faces ashen, watching as Conor’s life ebbed from him. Now and again, one of them would try to comfort me—though anyone could see they needed consolation every bit as much as I did.

  Morfran sent an urgent appeal to Tír nan Óg for faéry physicians, who shortly arrived—do not ask me how—bringing their skills and rare medicines, and for more days than I like to recall, my best beloved hovered between this worlds-realm and the next. The druids and faéry worked together to heal Conor and all the other wounded among us, and under their most strenuous efforts, the Lord of Tara and his stricken people began slowly to recover.

  Eirlandia herself was not so fortunate.

  I expect the bards will make no end of stories about Balor Evil Eye’s last battle and the valiant defence of Tara. These tales will be revered by many and, perhaps, even treasured through ages to come as the day our proud Dé Danann race stood tall in triumph. Right and fitting as that may be, the stories will fall far short of the mark. The bards will touch but lightly on the gore and stench, the waste and despair and heartbreak of that day and all the days that followed. And none will think to mention the crippling hardship that so swiftly snuffed the golden glow of our glorious victory.

  Was there relief? Aye, we wept with relief. And joy—so full our battered souls could not contain the half of it. But it was sweetest joy mingled with a full measure of bitter grief. And even that was fleeting. Our joy at the defeat of the Scálda lasted but a day. The sorrow is with us still.

  And if anyone imagined that our torment ende
d with Balor Evil Eye’s death and the downfall of our great enemy on Tara Plain, that illusion faded with the first flush of victory. In truth, our last and hardest travail had only just begun.

  The Scálda fled, as I say. Liam, through sheer effort of will, rallied the tribes. They say he cheated death a dozen times that day, and I do not doubt it. Somehow, evading the wiles and weapons of the Scálda, he broke through the enemy lines and, with stalwart Eamon by his side, reached Corgan of the Eridani. Fast riders raced with word to Cahir and the Coriondi, Torna and the Volunti, the Ulaid, Robogdi, and Concani, too—and all of them flew like avenging eagles to Tara’s aid, keen to secure the victory and finish the rout that Conor and the fianna had started.

  Without their lord and chieftain, the Scálda scattered—like leaves before a tempest gale they flew. They could not flee fast enough. Liam and the lords harried the retreating enemy warhost relentlessly and without cease, never giving them a chance to rest or breathe. Those Scálda nearest the coast ran to the sea and to the waiting Black Ships that had carried them north; others fled south in the hope of crossing the mountains and reaching safety in the stolen territories beyond the deadlands; others simply flailed about, scattering destruction in their wake.

  But the pursuit was dogged, absolute, and unyielding. The desire to rid Eirlandia of the Scálda was vicious strong in every Dé Danann whose blood still ran quick and hot in the vein.